


Third Eye Blind

by glacis



Category: Eye of the Beholder (1999), Shallow Grave (1994)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-28
Updated: 2010-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-06 18:44:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex's past comes back to haunt him. The Eye finds a new obsession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Third Eye Blind

Third Eye Blind, a Shallow Grave/Eye of the Beholder crossover.

**1993**

The only thing he remembered after Juliet left and the coppers came was the room spinning around. His shoulder hurting so much it was surreal. Laughing, unable to stop. Wondering if money was still spendable if it was all over bloody. Picturing the look on her face when she opened the suitcase. Then everything turned sepia-toned, like the old photographs in the archives at work, and the pain spread from his shoulder to envelope his entire world.

When he woke up in hospital, the Inspector was there. It was easy enough to fake terror. After all, he'd been terrified. "He ... he was mad. I wanted the story, Juliet was all set to call the cops. But he wanted the money. Went nuts about it."

A carefully edited story followed, fleshing out the details to the 'suicide note' he'd left on his computer at the paper for them to find. The holes in the roof. "He was watching when you talked to me. Cornered me after. Scared the shit out of me. Couldn't ... couldn't say anything. He'd've killed me like he killed them."

How he'd tried to appeal to friendship to save himself, believing he was protecting Juliet as well. "He didn't listen. He put a drill to m' head, the bit going right into my face," a shaking finger to the circular scab in the center of his forehead to illustrate the point, literally. "If she hadn't pleaded with him, I think he'd've done me right there."

The deaths of the men who'd come after the first, how they'd been shot and thrown from the attic, the thud as the bodies landed, how he'd nearly wet himself. How he'd been forced to help dig the graves, frightened the whole time he'd be next. "Wasn't himself, anymore. Didn't know who he was."

"You had my number, why didn't you ring me when you were away from him?"

"I thought he'd go after Juliet. Threatened us both. I couldn't just walk away and leave her to him, could I?"

"She did you."

It hurt, but he'd expected it. Not that he said so. He just looked away, picked at the blanket, crumpled the sheet between nervous fingers, and looked up with fresh tears in his eyes. "Couldn't do that to her. But I did try, when it got too bad. Leave a message!" No need to fake outrage at that one. "What kind of a thing is that to hear when a man's calling in fear of his life?!" The Inspector waved at him to go on, and he did.

Living in fear, caught up in the other man's crimes, unable to talk, unable to escape, all told with wide, teary eyes and a soft, breaking voice. It was very effective, and surprisingly easy to carry off, since there'd been times when he'd been quite certain either of his best friends in the world were going to kill him. "Beat the crap out of me, was going to hurt her, too."

Then the ultimate sacrifice. She took a life to save him. "He had the knife raised up, headed right for me, and she shoved a knife right in his neck. Knew just where to hit to stop him, guess she would, being a doctor and all." Followed by the almost-ultimate betrayal. "I was begging her to help me. She took off her shoe, pounded it into the floor until I couldn't move a'tall."

A pause to catch his breath, eyes fixed on the Inspector but seeing, instead, precisely what he'd expected of her. "She picked up the suitcase and walked out the door. I must've passed out, 'cause when I came to you were there. That's all I remember."

Later, he heard the doctor talking to the cops. He closed his eyes and concentrated, straining to hear every word. "Concussion, recent and healing contusions, cuts and scrapes, major puncture wound to the left shoulder, a circular scarring on the face from some sort of sharp tipped weapon, deep bruising and stress fractures of both shins. Appears to be from forceful application of a metal pipe or tire iron. Ligature marks at the throat and both wrists. From the patterning of the bruises, he looks to have been beaten at least three, possibly more times in the past month alone. Psychologically, he shows signs of being frightened to the point to where he's practically nonfunctional. Yes, inspector, I'd say he had reason to fear for his safety, given his physical and mental condition."

In the dark, with his eyes closed, a very slight smile crossed Alex Law's face. He was going to have to play it close to his chest, not be hasty, look to the long run, but this was going to work. He fell asleep dreaming of money, drenched in blood, and woke up screaming. When the sedative kicked in, he let it smother the nightmares, and went back to his dreams. This time, they brought him sunlit islands and naked bodies. It was a much easier rest.

**1998**

Hands pulled at him, voices were calling to him, a name he didn't know. He didn't answer. His world had narrowed to open, staring, blank brown eyes, a heavy weight in his arms, the smell of blood everywhere. He couldn't believe it. He'd managed to fuck it up again. He'd lost his wife and daughter by not acting. Now he'd managed to kill his second chance by acting once too often.

He'd slaughtered her one chance with the man she would have married, even if she probably would have killed the blind bastard later. He'd not gotten there in time to stop the assault by the druggie that had cost her the baby. He'd managed to get her away from the Feds, even set her up so she'd believe once again in her guardian angel, only to have her swerve off the road and put the car into the lake, and herself into the windscreen. If he'd only left well enough alone ... but if he'd done that, she'd've been dead anyway, wouldn't she?

The hands finally tore him away from her, and he heard a baritone repeat, over and over, "Frank? Frank, are you alright?"

Oh. Right. Frank. He stared up into the concerned eyes of the cop he'd shared breakfast with the previous morning. Right. He was Frank. He opened his mouth, but the only thing that came out was a sort of strangled whimper. He clawed his way away from the arms holding him back, and caught hold of her cooling body once more. He lowered his face to hers and buried it in her hair. She didn't smell like herself anymore. Just snow and blood.

The world was snow and blood.

When he recognized the world beyond those two things again, he was in a hospital bed. There was a bandage on his head and plaster around one arm. Banged it up when the bike went down, although in the need to get to her he hadn't noticed. One ankle felt funny, too, and he flexed it experimentally, wincing in pain when it protested the movement.

A throat cleared beside the bed, and he looked up at the federal agent. The questions were tough, by FBI standards, and the lies came easily, mixed with as much truth as was verifiable. British agent, dug into the back pocket of his trousers and showed them his card. Following the trail of a killer, one Joanna Eris, wanted for questioning in the disappearance and presumed death of a twenty two year old British national.

"That case was turned over to us four months ago, and we were informed that all interest by your government was terminated at that time."

"I've been out of contact, undercover, most of the time. My assignment was given to me personally by the head, the father of the murder victim. It was a matter of honor to complete it."

"Even though he was dead, and the case was given to the agency that _has_ jurisdiction?"

"Yes." His voice was almost gone. He wasn't used to this much face to face contact with anyone. It was painful.

"Well, you got her, can't fault you there," the agent congratulated him grudgingly. "Although it would have been nice if you'd gotten her alive so we could get the details."

His eyes closed, and images flashed behind them. Plastic sheet, tie around the eyes, brandy goblet, no prints, she'd done this before. "She'd done it before. She was a professional. You never caught her before." His eyes opened again, and he stared dully at the FBI man. "I did."

"Yes, son, you did," the agent agreed. "I have a few more questions-"

"It's classified," he cut in. "I'm sorry." Hard eyes stared into his own, and he trembled, but held the glare.

Three weeks later, standing in front of the new Head's desk, he gave the details. Carefully edited. He didn't mention his own hand in the blind man's death, or how he'd cleaned the scene so hastily after she'd murdered the detective. He did bring up the body of the gem dealer on the train, but he gave no details of young Hugo's murder.

"The body was dredged from the lake beside the vacation house," the new Head growled. "How did you miss that?"

"She was alone when I got there," he lied through his teeth. "There was interference from the storm." He gave a few technical details, not enough to hang himself, but plausible given the distance and the weather. "I'm not an experienced field agent, sir. I dropped the damned cell and GPS. Had to hurry to keep up with her."

"You called a Breach Three, then recanted. Why?"

"There were too many civilians involved. She'd hooked up with someone. She was a professional. I thought I'd stand a better chance on my own, with less chance of civilian casualties." Lucy told me not to leave her. Now Lucy's gone, too.

"With your lack of experience?"

"Judgement call, sir. I did get her." And lost her. Lost her.

"Yes, you did, Mr. Wilson, which is the only reason you're still standing here, not in a box."

They stared at one another. Stephen was the first to drop his eyes.

"You're very good at what you do, Mr. Wilson. As the Eye, you are damned good. You watch, and you catch things. You do not belong in the field. Hugo made a mistake there. He was right to trust you. You're determined, resourceful, loyal and you don't quit."

He looked at his new boss. "Sir?" He'd heard the 'but'.

"You got personally involved. You do much better when you stay in your room behind your computers."

No. They die then, too. He didn't say anything. They died when he got involved, too. Any way he went, they died.

"I'm reassigning you. This loyalty you have to my predecessor went too far, and took other people with it."

Stephen winced. Hil wasn't talking to him. Now he knew why. He hoped she hadn't been punished too severely for helping him.

"I'm transferring you to the Glasgow office." He pushed a packet across the shiny surface of the desk. Stephen reached out hesitantly and picked it up. "I heard you had a nickname."

"Lucky," he said softly, almost a whisper.

"You lived up to it," the Head reproved him. "Don't push it."

"No, sir." He didn't say another word all the way out the door. He stopped long enough to pet the long haired ginger cat once. Looked at Hil. She looked back at him, then looked away. His eyes dropped, and he left for Dulles without lifting them again.

**2000**

Alex smiled at the good and not so good natured gibing coming at him from all sides of the pit as he thumbed his nose at his fellow news hounds. It had been a good break, one more notch in his belt, another step up the ladder as a crime reporter. It was a bit of a headspinner, really, given what he'd survived ... done ... to be known as a crack crime writer, but there it was. Couldn't argue with fate.

'Least now he didn't lose his dinner every time he saw a corpse. It had been touch and go for awhile.

He was getting very good at playing it cool, though. He should. He'd had a lot of practice. He knew the cops were still watching him. So he'd not done much at all with the money. He hadn't gone starkers over it like David had, didn't wrap it in oilcloth and stick it in the tank and sleep up in the attic with it. He left it in the floorboards and only took notes out when he needed something extra, and he made damned sure he had an alternate explanation if anyone asked. He wasn't flashy.

He'd learned the hard way what flashy got you.

No one had come after him, well, other than the cops. No mobsters, no more murderers. He'd stayed in the flat, fixing it up a bit, using some of the money for that. He'd turned into a cautious man, in some ways. Didn't drink as much, stayed to himself more. Didn't really trust anybody. Work was going well, he got laid on a semi-regular basis, and the stories he broke were getting bigger. In a few years, when the heat had gone down a little more, he and his stash were going to the Caribbean or the Mediterranean and getting lost for good.

Sighing at the thought, he shoved his coffee cup to the side and stared at his computer screen. Absently reaching for the file he'd left on his desk before heading out that morning, he paused as his fingers found a manila envelope that hadn't been there before. He looked at it curiously. No marks at all. No address, no postage, nothing. Weird. Half-seriously, half messing about, he shook it and listened for ticking.

Okay, not a bomb then. He grinned and slit the side. A photograph fell out. Another.

His grin slipped.

Juliet.

In Scotland.

Perth, if he remembered his castles rightly. She was coming out of Dupplin Castle, small suitcase in one hand, looking off into the distance. She'd lost weight. Cut her hair. Looked good. Looked grim.

He swallowed. Perth was too fucking close. Edinburgh was too fucking close. Hell, _Dover_ was too fucking close. She was supposed to be in Rio, or somewhere else very far away from him. The photo rattled in his hand, and he realized he was shaking.

When had this been taken? Just how close was she? And where had this come from? The question hit him like a brick. Who'd taken the photo? Who knew? And why? What did they want? From him? From her? His journalist's brain was ticking over what felt like a hundred miles an hour, thoughts chasing themselves until he was dizzy.

"Billy!" he called out, catching the eye of the office gopher. "This packet. Where'd it come from?"

The boy shrugged. "Some bloke. Didn't know him."

"Well, what'd he look like?" Alex fought to keep the impatience out of his voice. He didn't want to give anyone cause to wonder why he was so urgent about this, and Billy was bright, when he wasn't playing stupid to get out of work.

"I dunno. Average like. Not real tall, not little. Sandy haired, I guess, shortish hair, brown coat, suit, looked like an accountant or somethin'. Why?"

"No name. Wanted to follow up with him. Ta, anyway," he managed a dismissive wave. Along his hairline, he could feel sweat breaking out. For a few seconds he actually considered giving the Inspector a ring. Then common sense asserted itself. The cops were just now starting to ease off. One thing he didn't need was a reason to ratchet up their interest level.

That night, some of the money came out of the cache. Very quietly, he contacted a security firm he'd interviewed in the course of a story the previous year. By the next morning, he had a private investigator tracking those photos, and within a week, a security system installed and operational at the flat. He didn't sleep much. He sat, back against the wall, staring out the front window, and wondered if it was ever going to end. And if he'd still be standing when it did.

Routine surveillance had lasted for eight months, and he'd felt like a race horse stuck in the pony circle at the village fair. He'd started going through the back files to keep himself from falling asleep.

That took him a week.

After that, he'd begun hacking into local and national law enforcement databases. There'd been some interesting stories, mainly sex and stupidity, but a few had caught his attention. Then Upstairs had needed a crack Eye for a difficult job, Argentinean diplomat with a finger in too many pies, and he'd gotten back into some real work. But Glasgow, much as he loved the town, wasn't DC, and he got bored easily.

Should be. He didn't have any other life. Didn't want one, didn't try to find one. His coworkers whispered behind his back, he knew that. Knew it and ignored it. He didn't talk to anyone unless he had to, and he seldom did. His world was quiet. Lucy hadn't come back, and neither had Joanna. He missed them both, for awhile, then quietly went numb.

He wrapped up the Argentinean job in three weeks, and Upstairs was happy. More assignments came, then, latitude was gradually extended, and the jobs got more interesting. Late at night, he still hacked in to different systems, partly to keep in practice, partly to keep from sleeping. He didn't like his dreams.

Two years after coming home, something finally caught and held his attention.

Her name was Juliet, and she was a strong, competent, deadly woman, too, just like Joanna had been . That was the first thing that caught his eye. That, and her legs. She had an incredible body. The first time the Brazilian attaché spread her out over his desk, hooked her knees over his shoulders and made a feast of her, Stephen hadn't been able to look away. Even if he had, he couldn't. Had to watch, had to photograph, had to take in every last lascivious detail. It wasn't spying, but it was a breach of sorts. He'd done some research, and put out an electronic request for further coverage.

Surveillance sent him out into the field, following the diplomat, but not very far, not out of the country. Only to Edinburgh, then up to Drumnadrochit, over to Perth. Down to Falkirk, then over to Glasgow. Back in his office, he followed up a moment of recognition he'd had at the Malmaison as he was watching her put her dress back on. A quick stroll through the local homicide records brought her back to him. Seven years before, she'd killed a man. It had been labeled defensive by the sole survivor, one Alex Law, a newspaperman. The cops still wanted to ... talk ... to her.

This time, he did what he was supposed to do. He told his superiors, who told him it was national security and international interests so to keep his Eye open and his trap shut. Translated, it meant they didn't want to spook the target, and miss the big fish because of the guppy.

He'd tried.

He'd not acted the first time, and lost his family. He'd acted the second, and lost the one who might have been his love. The third time, he simply turned a blind eye to her and went about his job. She wasn't it.

It itched. Nagged at him. As the job went on and they got closer to Glasgow, he couldn't help but wonder about the survivor. Had they been lovers? Is that why she'd killed a man to save another? But if that was the case, why had she left him pinned to the floor, bleeding? An anonymous call had alerted the authorities, a woman's voice, assumed to be hers. So, if she cared enough to try to save his life, and cared enough to kill for him, why had she left him there with a knife through his shoulder?

Too many questions, and he wasn't allowed to ask any of them. But it wouldn't let him be, and eventually he acted. Not too much action, just a little, just enough to give another man the choice. He took two of the pictures, one in Perth, one in Falkirk, and went in late one morning. On the way to work, he put his head down, wandered into the newsroom downtown, dropped an envelope from a gloved hand onto a messy workspace, and wandered out again. Where Law took it from there was up to him. Stephen was out of it.

Only he wasn't.

When the trap closed around the Brazilian spy, his American mistress disappeared. She cleaned out his safe before she left; the Eye caught her. The Head told him to leave her, she wasn't important. Stephen pointed out the fact that she'd taken a 9 millimeter Beretta and a full clip of ammunition as well as all the cash in the safe. He was shrugged off.

He shrugged in turn, and left the enforcers to their duties. Then he quietly gathered up his bag of electronics and took himself home. To a new flat he was renting under an assumed name, one floor below Alex Law.

He'd set up the equipment a month before, two weeks before leaving off the packet of photos. He didn't know quite why, but his instinct was telling him to watch, and that's what he did. The first week had been dull. Law had been away following up on a story. The second week had been livelier. Law had brought home a woman, and the two had had sex in four of the five rooms in the flat. For the first time in his career as a professional voyeur, the Eye was trained solely on the male in the coupling. Something about Law drew him. Maybe it was the man's laugh. Infectious. Or his biting wit. His air of vulnerability. Or his sprawling grace. Something drew Stephen's eye, and wouldn't let it go.

The third week was interesting. The photos must have frightened him, because Law came directly home. Drew the shades. Pried up a board in the floor of the main room, and withdrew a bundle of cash. Stephen sat bolt upright and peered at the monitor.

So. She hadn't taken the money away with her after all. Perhaps there was a reason Law was afraid. If she was deadly enough to kill one man, thinking she had the money ... and she had to have thought she had the money, or she'd not have left until she'd gotten it from Law ... then it was possible she could return and kill another man for it.

The frenzy of activity at the flat gave credence to his theory. When he'd heard the security men coming up the stairs, he'd waited only long enough for Law to go greet them before snaking a thin, flexible pole up the outside of the window, popping his listening device off the pane, and retrieving it through his own window. The tiny cameras would have to stay. No way to get them out now; no time.

He crossed his fingers and stopped breathing a time or two during the next few hours, but luckily the standard security net the men installed neither interfered with nor uncovered his own surveillance equipment. There was static for a moment when it came on-line, but he quickly compensated for it. For the rest of the night, he sat and watched Alex Law sitting and staring out the front window.

Law didn't sleep much, either.

The next night, as Stephen watched the monitor, the lack of sleep finally caught up to him. The dreams began, as they always did, but this time they were different. This time it wasn't his wife. Wasn't Lucy begging him to find her. Wasn't Joanna and the blood, and the snow and the ice and the pain. This time it was Alex Law.

The man was moving across the monitor, then Stephen was somehow the monitor, pressed over the image, absorbing and becoming the image. Alex's voice, laughing back at the telly, was the vibration of his own vocal chords, only he didn't have vocal chords, only sound imagers, dissecting and rearranging the sound waves. Stephen _was_ the Eye, in truth as in action, was the microphones and the lenses and the electronic conversion of reality into finite bits of data. He blanketed Alex. In the front room on the couch, he was the bowl of crisps in Alex's lap. In the bath, he was the water pouring over Alex's skin. In the bedroom, he was the sheet carelessly tossed over naked flesh. He was the sound of hand moving over skin as Alex pleasured himself, the moan and splash as he came, the infrared heat of his body against the coolness of the bed linens.

Images pixilated and split into a thousand separate pinpoints of color, shades of black and blue and red and yellow and violet. Sound splintered, striking him like shards of glass, and the monitor exploded as he broke out of his prison. He was no longer the blanket, he was a ghost in the bed, his own hands joining Alex's on the long legs and sturdy torso, along the broad shoulders and narrow hips. His mouth covered Alex's and breathed in as Alex exhaled, taking him in, claiming him, becoming him.

He woke himself up with his cry. His pants were wet with semen and his throat hurt. His eyes were watering. He squinted through the blur of tears and saw Alex, sleeping peacefully in his undisturbed bed.

Stephen didn't sleep again that night. His eyes stayed glued to the screen. Three feet away. Not touching the glass. He was blind to what he was seeing, but couldn't stop watching to save his soul.

 

He didn't know how she circumvented the security system, but she was sitting on the couch nine days later when he came in the door after work. Waiting for him. He didn't realize she was there until he'd come all the way into the room, and by then it was too late.

Much too late. She was pointing a gun at his belly.

"Juliet," he greeted her, weakly. She smiled at him. It wasn't a pretty smile. It looked feral, like the snarl right before the cheetah chewed the antelope's hind leg off. Alex shook off the mental image, damned the BBC for too many nature specials, and pasted on his own smile. He had a feeling he looked more like the antelope than the cheetah. He wondered for an instant if the whites of his eyes were showing.

"Where's the money, Alex?"

"What, no hello? No hug? How the fuckin' hell should I know where the money is?" When in doubt, go for the throat. As in journalism, so in life. "You pinned me to the goddamn floor with a knife through me, left me in a pool of my own blood, took off your fuckin' _shoe_ and _pounded the knife in_, and you want me to tell you where you put the fuckin' _suitcase_?" His voice rose throughout until he was shrieking at her by the end of his little tirade.

She didn't look impressed. "Paper. Specifically, _your_ paper. Your copies of your first front pager, Alex. David didn't cut that paper up so neatly and bundle it, although it's anal enough he could have. You did. Your paper." Her smile widened and the gun lifted. "My money."

"C'mon, Juliet," he said coaxingly, moving further into the room until he was just a few feet away from her. She rose to meet his perceived challenge, and he stopped. He put his hands out, palms up, fingers spread, head tilted down, looking up at her through his fringe. His very best innocent laddie look. "I don't know where he put the --"

She cocked the gun. The words froze in his throat. "Don't fuck with me, Alex."

"No, I didn't, that was his prerogative, wasn't it." He didn't know where the bitterness came from, but she responded to it, thankfully uncocking the trigger, although she didn't lower the barrel. "I guess you did earn it."

Her eyes hardened again, and he put his hands further up, looking as harmless as he could. Then he moved, ducking and striking out, knocking the weapon away from her hand. She was taller than he was, and damned strong, always had been. She had a hand around his throat, and he scrabbled wildly at her arm as she bowled him over. Lights were starting to sparkle behind his eyes when he saw a flash of silver over him.

"Fuck, no, please!" he gasped painfully. The knife in her free hand arced high, and he was suddenly seven years in the past, straddled by a friend, facing death. Paralyzed with memories and disbelief, he could do nothing but stare and whimper as the knife came down.

A blast broke his paralysis and his ears felt like they'd exploded. Above him, Juliet jerked and fell away from him, the knife falling uselessly from her hand to land on the bare wood floor. Her eyes were wide open, staring past him toward the door, and blood was bubbling along her lower lip as she slumped. She fell the rest of the way, sprawled awkwardly on her back. Her blank eyes were staring at the ceiling now. Her chest wasn't moving.

Alex tore his eyes away from her body to stare wildly at the door. A nondescript man a few years older than he stood in the doorway, a small handgun still pointed Alex's direction. His eyes were very wide and his face was very pale, making the spattering of freckles stand out. He was shaking slightly. There was a look of disbelief on his face. Billy's voice flashed through Alex's brain. Average like. Not real tall, not little. Sandy haired, shortish hair, brown coat, suit, looked like an accountant or somethin'. Wearing gloves.

An accountant who'd just killed Juliet and saved Alex's life.

The man walked further into the room, closing the door carefully behind him. Without a word to Alex, he walked over, picked up the gun Juliet had lost in the original struggle, and knelt to place it in her hand. "Move," he said so softly Alex almost didn't hear him. Without thought, he obeyed. The stranger carefully forced Juliet's finger through the trigger guard, aimed her hand and fired the gun slightly to the left of where Alex had been standing. Alex jumped.

"Here," he said simply, handing his own gun to Alex. "It's registered to the security firm you hired. The police should be here shortly." With that, he rose and headed for the door.

"Wait!" Alex didn't believe this was happening. "What do I tell them? Who are you?"

Ignoring the second question, the man addressed the first. "She was waiting for you. She threatened you. She wanted more money. You told her you didn't have any. She fired at you. You fired back. She missed. You didn't." Then he was gone. Alex stared at the closed door and listened to the sirens.

What a hell of a way for it to end. He was still laughing weakly, hysteria biting at the edges, when the Inspector walked in.

 

Stephen was clearing out the flat when the call came in. Get to headquarters, Breach Two, all Eyes in and open. Cursing mildly under his breath, knowing that Law would be busy dealing with the cops and hoping they'd keep him occupied until Stephen could erase himself from Law's life, he headed in to work. On the way down the stairs, he passed two men in suits and several uniformed policeman. They didn't stop him, and he effaced himself carefully until he was out of the building. There were times when the lack of lifts and fire escapes could really be a bitch.

He very carefully didn't think about what had just happened. What he'd just done. He wasn't sure why he'd stepped in again. He only knew he couldn't let her kill Alex. Something about the man had gotten to him.

The man had invaded his dreams. Taken away the blood. Replaced it with ... what? For the first time that he could remember, he wished he had a confidant. He needed to work this out. Soon. But not right now. Right now, he had work to do. Or he could do what he always did. Disappear into thin air and go on to the next sideshow.

Serial voyeurism as an avocation. The description suited him.

 

One of the reasons he'd become a journalist was because he was incredibly nosy. Another was that he had a photographic memory for faces, something that came in handy when he was on a story. It came in handy now. Once the police and the coroner and the photographers and the dust people and every other damned body the local authorities could call out finally left, and he'd gone down to the station and made his report and been finally released pending further investigation ... and why the hell would he want to leave town, anyway? The threat was gone now ... he came home. Started knocking politely on doors. Asking questions. His neighbors knew him, some would even talk to him, and he was less surprised than he might have otherwise been when nice Mrs. Abernathy in the bottom floor flat remembered the pale young man with the freckles who looked so solemn.

In the flat directly below his.

Alex couldn't get in the front door of the stranger's flat. He'd picked the lock, but there was some sort of weird bolt on it that seemed to be electronic or something, and he couldn't get through it. So he'd done as he used to do when he was a boy. He'd skinned down the outer wall, using ledges and bricks and laughing at his own insanity all the way. He'd had to crack the window to unlatch it, but he was in.

What he found made his eyes go wide, his throat close up, and his skin turn clammy. There was electronic equipment everywhere. A monitor that showed a six-way view covering every room in his flat. Computers monitoring sound and image. Gadgets he couldn't begin to guess the use of and some about which he was too nervous to wonder. It looked like a spy's den.

The thought hit him like a stone between the eyes. The bastard was a spy. Had been spying on him. For some time, if the look of the place was anything to go by. But if that was the case, the man had to know Alex still had the money. Why, then, hadn't he gone to the police? Why had he rushed in to save Alex's life? What the bloody hell was going on? There was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he felt, once again, like he was in way over his head and sinking fast.

He didn't go to work that day. He called in on his cell phone and stuck it in his pocket after hanging up. If the coppers or his editor or a source wanted him, he could be reached. But he wasn't going anywhere. Not until the stranger came back and answered some pointed questions. Alex searched the flat for weapons, found what looked like a modified multi-barrel rifle -- some sort of strange camera -- and a knife, but no more guns. That reassured him, but not by much. He picked a corner in the shadows where he'd be between the man and the door in case it got violent, and he waited.

The stranger didn't come back that night. Or the next. Alex made himself at home, nipping out upstairs for food and scotch, then coming back to wait some more. On the fourth evening, the door opened.

The stranger looked tired. His head was bowed and his shoulders drooped. He walked in, closed the door behind him, and threw the bolt before wandering slowly further into the flat. Alex stepped behind him and leaned against the door, fumbling with the lock to make sure his getaway was clear if he needed it. The man heard him moving, and froze.

"Why?" Alex asked, the question echoing in the silent room. The man turned very slowly, eyes scanning for a weapon. What the hell did this guy do for a living that made him so paranoid?

"How'd it go with the police?" The man ignored his question. Again. His voice was very soft, hesitant. It made Alex want to yell at him.

"Self defense, but they'll be watching me. As always." Alex took a step closer. "Like you have been."

The man shook his head in a gentle negative. "Not like me."

Alex challenged him on it. "How is it not? You've been watching me. Been at my work. Warned me about Juliet. Saved my fuckin' skin." With each word a demand for explanation, Alex had been stepping closer and closer to the man until he was right in his face. "How is it not like you? Watching me?"

The stranger lifted a shaking hand and touched Alex's cheek very softly. Looking glaikit, not quite all there, the man leaned forward, closing the few inches between them until their lips met. Alex stood there in total shock and let the man kiss him.

It felt good.

His lips were gentle. He asked, didn't take. He seemed more shocked by his own temerity than Alex was by his actions. He was shaking even harder when he backed away. His mouth was trembling.

Never one to back down from a challenge, taken aback by his own reaction to the sweetness of the kiss, Alex followed him. The man backed away until he bumped into the wall, then stood there, mouth slightly open, panting lightly, still shaking. Alex put his hands on the man's shoulders, held him against the wall so neither one of them would fall over, and opened his mouth over the man's mouth.

He tasted as sweet the second time. Coffee and nicotine and cool water. Alex forced his way deeper, following the tastes with his tongue, mapping out the smooth teeth, supple muscle, ridged palate with the tip and the edge of his tongue, sipping and sucking with his lips. He was shaking almost as much as the stranger by this time, and he leaned against the bony, muscular warmth of the other man's body as all his strength poured into the kiss. Everything the stranger had asked for, Alex took.

The man was moaning as Alex slipped the buttons on his shirt, racked his undershirt up to get to his nipples, worked at his belt, zip and pants to get to everything else. It was obvious from the other man's uncoordinated efforts to help that he had even less an idea what he was doing than Alex did, and Alex was flying on instinct. Desire took the place of experience and want made the clumsiness unimportant. They got their shirts open and off, breaking the kiss to rip the material over their heads, then diving back in, breathing in open-mouthed gulps before sealing their lips together again. Elbows clashed, arms got entangled with pants, and hands, noses and knees bumped together. It didn't matter.

All that mattered was hot, sweating skin pressed and rubbed against more hot, sweating skin. Alex's thigh was between the stranger's, pressing hard, and his hands were running all over the man, before settling with one hand petting the short soft bristles of hair at the man's nape, the fingers of the other squeezing and running along the man's tensing and relaxing arse. He was rocking into the man's heat, pricks together, lengths rubbing along one another, and he felt like they were branding one another. Every splash of pre-ejaculate, every trickle of sweat was iridescent, searing them, marking them each for the other.

His hands clenched as his body spasmed, and he shuddered in the man's arms, coming and crying and gasping for air. The man moaned long and low against his shoulder, then buried his hot face against the side of Alex's neck and came himself, shaking so hard Alex had to hold him against the wall or he'd've brought them both down.

Eventually the shivering calmed, and the man drew his head back, leaning it against the wall, air coming from him in forced little pants. Alex looked at him and grinned, then leaned forward and followed a trace of sweat down from his temple to his throat, licking at it with his tongue.

"Christ," the man breathed, shivering again.

"I'm sure that's not your name," Alex growled softly before nipping at the tendon along the side of his neck.

"Stephen." The man stopped, and gulped, and Alex felt the movement under his lips. He licked his way up to the swollen mouth and kissed the man again, enjoying it now that the edge of need was blunted.

"Stephen," he teased. "You going to disappear now?"

"I ... can't."

Alex could barely hear the words. They sounded choked.

"Good," he answered, pleased. He didn't know what the hell was going on, but he was enjoying it now, and as long as the man ... as long as Stephen didn't go anywhere, they'd have plenty of time for him to root out all the little secrets Stephen was hiding. It would be fun. Besides, he'd discovered a whole new erotic world tonight, and he was in no hurry to stop exploring now. He pulled his mind away from his body and back to the conversation, such as it was. "I like having someone to watch over me."

"I have to go."

Stephen ducked away abruptly, under Alex's arm and into the room, tucking and buttoning and straightening with hands that shook only slightly. Alex pitched forward and nearly went into the wall before catching himself. He turned and watched his watcher.

"Thought you said you weren't going anywhere."

"Errand." Wild blue eyes stared over at him, and Alex smiled.

"Late, anyway, isn't it. I need to get some sleep myself." Alex let him off the hook, for the moment, and prowled over to the door. On the way, he reached over and touched Stephen's lower lip with one finger. "Don't go away. I'll see you tomorrow." He gestured over his shoulder with his chin. "You'll see me all night."

He left Stephen looking pole-axed in the middle of the doorway. Behind him, he heard a strained whisper.

"I will watch over you."

By the time he got upstairs, he was laughing delightedly and planning to put on a show.

 

As soon as the door closed behind Alex, Stephen bolted it. He had to lean against it a moment to catch his breath. He didn't know what had just happened, he only knew it was completely out of his control. It was dangerous. It couldn't happen again.

He paced methodically around the flat, packing up equipment, erasing any evidence of his tenure there. A sound from the monitor behind him caught his attention, and he turned to the screen. There was movement in the upper right window of the split screen. Alex's bedroom. Alex's bed. Alex.

Sprawled supine on the bed, without a stitch of clothing on. His skin was flushed, his hand moving lazily along his body, his head arching back against the pillow. His fingers plucked at his nipples, leaving them erect, then he ran his nails firmly along his chest, trailing thin red lines in their wake. When he got to his cock, he palmed it, then took his time, playing with his balls, running his fingers along his pubic hair, stroking the length of the shaft.

Stephen stood stock still in the middle of the room. He couldn't have stopped watching if someone had put a gun to his head.

The play went on forever, Alex bringing himself to the brink of orgasm then backing away, time and again. Stephen's breath came faster and slower, matching the pace, until Alex finally gave in and brought himself to climax. Stephen bit down hard on his lower lip, his fists clenched at his sides, eyes glued to the screen, twitching and feeling himself come in his pants as Alex keened and pumped into his fist. The splash of liquid along Alex's belly glistened in the low light.

Stephen felt his knees give. One hand unclenched and massaged his groin, mimicking Alex's slow, calming movements. On the screen, Alex smiled sleepily directly at him. Stephen groaned, his eyes finally closing.

Half an hour later, equipment case in hand, Stephen let himself out of the flat and disappeared.

**2003**

Stepping off the ferry at Kamares, Alex looked around the bustling port of Sifnos and couldn't hold back his grin. It had taken ten years, but he'd finally managed it. He'd taken his money, and he'd escaped, and he was going to bask in the sunshine as long as the Swiss bank account and the high tech stocks held out.

A few hours later he'd settled into his tiny house, stripped down to his swim shorts, and was lazing on the beach. It had been a frustrating, irritating few years. Odd things had happened, chapters had closed and opened and closed just as abruptly, and he was tired. Tired of looking and not finding, tired of not looking and tripping over what he wasn't expecting. A shadow blocked the sunshine, and he looked up, ready to growl.

A little girl with long dark hair and big bright eyes smiled at him. He smiled back, charmed. She said something to him in Greek, too fast for his rudimentary grasp of the language to follow, then handed him an envelope.

He looked at it. Looked back at her. She laughed, spun on her toes, and ran off. He thought about calling her back, then settled back on his blanket and stared at the envelope instead. Slowly, he slit the end with his nail and shook it.

Photographs fluttered out.

A dozen or so. All very recent, from the ferry dock, the street, his bedroom as he was changing clothes. There was one that concentrated on the line of his spine and highlighted the curve of his arse. He laughed, anticipation making him tingle from more than the unaccustomed sun.

Well, Stephen had said he'd watch over him. Smiling as he carefully stuffed the photos back in the envelope, he raised his bottle to his unseen watcher, and waited for the next move in the game.

_finis_

 


End file.
